1916 Bella
by xxtwilight
Summary: Bella was born in 1901 in Chicago. She meets Edward and they fall in love before he dies of the Spanish Influenza, or so she thinks. She is changed into a vampire shortly afterwards. What will happen when they meet in 90 years as vampires? R&R Please.
1. Sunday Tea

Note: I am not Stephenie Meyer nor do I own the Twilight series.

**Hi everyone! I got a random inspiration for writing this story after reading Boston Jane, a book about a girl getting married in the 1800s.**

**I am not sure if I will continue this story or not. Reviews will determine that. I really hope to hear from you guys. Please let me know what you think!**

I rolled over on my twin mattress, desperately trying to ignore the unpleasant, shrill voice calling my name from below. Surely if I forced myself into more pleasant thoughts, the annoyingly real voice would disappear into thin air?

"_Miss Swan!"_

I groaned, knowing all along that the voice_ had_ been real. But a lady needed her beauty sleep. Surely Marie, a working lady, nonetheless, would understand _that_?

"_Miss Swan!"_

Marie's voice sounded from closer this time. Although Marie may have had many becoming qualities, _patience _certainly was not one of them. Nor tact. I heard the stairs creak from the pressure of her loud, impolite barge up the steps. Marie threw door to the second floor hallway open, the knob carelessly banging the wall. Mother would_ not_ appreciate the chipped paint on the newly coated walls and, if my luck continued, would undoubtedly blame _me_ for the damage.

My eyelids flew open as I heaved myself off the bed, stumbling for a moment. I clutched my vanity mirror's dresser for balance, trying to ease the uncontrolled whirling of my mind, a result of my sudden morning wakeup.

All too soon, the door to my room visibly vibrated from the annoying knocks—or, more accurately, hits—emitted from the other side. "Miss Swan! Your mother requests your presence in the parlor _immediately_!"

The indecent, nasal accent, a trademark of Marie's years in France, somehow lessened the formality of her urgent words. I smirked, remembering the French nicknames she used to call me as a child.

"_Petit chaton!" She sang, her thin, blonde hair blowing in wisps around her face as she grabbed my elbow, leading me from our local playground. "You must not allow yourself to get dirty, miss! Ce n'est pas bien…" She chided, notoriously slipping into French when agitated. _

"_Ah, mad-e-moi-selle." I retorted in an English accent, annunciating every part of the word to try to pronounce it correctly. My tongue felt thick and inert as the unfamiliar French vowels slipped out of my mouth. "Je peux jouer dans la…" I trailed off, inwardly scolding myself for forgetting the equivalent to 'playground' in French._

_My gracious efforts at speaking French remained unacknowledged by Marie's dismissive laugh, and a slight wave of her hand. "Madame Swan," She began, her voice sounding twice as melodious as she spoke in her native tongue. "Tu ne peut pas parler francaise. Your French is as awful as the dress Sylvie Netter wore the other day." A naughty smirk shone on her face, reminding me of mother's chiding to not speak ill of others, for it was unladylike. But I could not prevent the grin from spreading on my face as I remembered Sylvie Netter's dreadful ensemble from the previous day._

Today, of course, my French was another story. My studies at Knightley's Academy for Girls was certainly paying off—my French was 'simply superb,' as quoted by my French instructor.

The relentless banging at my door quickly brought me back to reality, reminding me of Marie's annoying presence outside my room, and the _request_ of my presence in the parlor. I did not know why mother bothered with such civilities—_surely_ it was more accurate to say _demand _rather than_ request_?

I shook my head, banishing the useless, irrelevant thoughts from my mind. _"A lady must never busy herself with other's business," _I remembered from Chapter 13 of _A Lady's Presence in the Household_, a course I was taking at Knightley's.

I parted the silky, Japanese curtains—a treasured souvenir of my _only_ visit abroad—as I opened the only window in my room, basking in the restricted sunlight that I so rarely saw. I frowned, remembering that a 'lady's cheeks must always look pale and sunken, as if she were on the verge of fainting.' That did not exactly coexist with my fervent desire to play in the sun. _A lady must never play, either,_ I reminded myself, embarrassed to have even _considered_ the notion.

In one brisk movement, I unzipped my white nightgown and stepped into my thin, wispy under dress—the _only _piece of comfortable clothing I owned. "Marie?" I called, allowing her entrance to my room.

She knowingly took her place behind me as I stepped into my—_gulp_—corset. I studiously ignored the sharp, searing stabs of pain along my torso as Marie tightly secured the corset that would surely crush my lungs.

Marie's nimble hands helped me into the rest of my clothes—a padded skirt for support, a pair of stockings to prevent chafing, and, of course, my frilly dress reserved for Sunday Tea in the Parlor _only_. I stubbornly refused to wear the ridiculous, intricately detailed dress for _any_ other occasion, despite its hold as the 'current fashion,' or how slender my waist _may_ have looked in it.

I took short, quick gasps of breath through my teeth as I tittered across the hallway, ignoring the burning in my lungs from a lack of oxygen.

Sunday Tea in the Parlor was _always_ an event to detest, though my mother strongly disagreed. Every Sunday morning, Marie would wake me up earlier than usual—much to my dismay—and proceed to help me into my _'loveliest'_ dress, corset included. Then, Marie would escort me to the parlor, where my mother and I would usually sip tea with various influential individuals from the area.

Occasionally mother would slip a suitor in, without a word of it to me. In my opinion, such behavior should be restricted—mother_ knew _how I detested being assessed by men from the area, like a horse being ascertained for its value.

As silly and idealistic as it might sound, I did not want to marry a _suitor_, but rather, a man who loved me for the person I was. At the visit of every suitor, I never failed to fidget uncomfortably as the men's eyes lingered on my waist—as if the size of my _waist _would determine the outcome of our _marriage_!

I sighed, frustrated. Men were_ never_ to be trusted. The lessons I learned from Marie were priceless—I did not know what would have become of me if I had been complacent with my mother and married the first acceptable suitor to desire me. Marie was young enough. She was not bad-looking, either—a little rouge on her cheeks, curls in her blonde hair, and she would look lovely enough to be sought after.

But, as always, there is a reason for everything. Why was Marie working here, in our home, as a _maid_, when she could have aspired to have a much brighter future? The answer? Men, their false promises, and their actions.

"Good morning, mother." I announced breathlessly upon entering the parlor. The effects of the corset still wore on me as I quickly took my seat at the tea table, politely nodding to a gentleman sitting across from me.

The man was rather attractive. He had the look of a boy on his face—surely he was no older than I?—that was offset by his broad shoulders and manly physique. His face dimpled as he shot me a winning smile—winning, in any other circumstance, but not enough for me.

"Hello, Miss Swan, my name is Daniel." He introduced himself.

A smile played on the edges of my lips as I took him in._ Ah, _I thought, almost amused. _Here comes the next contestant._

My eyes glinted as I took my prepared myself to react—like a lion, waiting in the bushes, to pounce on an unsuspecting deer. I grinned wickedly as I beamed at him, turning on the full force of my charm.

"Why, hello, Daniel. I don't believe we've met. My name is Bella Swan. You may call me by my first name, if you'd prefer."

I shot my mother a glance I hoped looked menacing, though a smile stayed plastered on my face for the sake of our guest. I knew the last comment would irk my mother—she was always piqued by my casual attitude towards the annoyingly long line of suitors.

In fact, I was _so_ dead-set against the notion of marrying a suitor simply for convenience—financial and whatnot—that I made this into a game._ My_ game. A game so infused with charm, smiles, and desirability on my part that any man or suitor silly enough to play stood no chance against me.

I leaned back against the couch, my posture exuding confidence and charisma. Though, by the wicked shine in my eyes, I was sure my mother could tell _just_ what I was up to.

Though that did not stop her from introducing me to _every_ suitor, it seemed, residing in Chicago, every Sunday during tea.

**Hi guys! I hope you liked that. This beginning chapter was mainly to introduce the 20****th**** century Bella, and her lifestyle before meeting Edward.**

**Don't get impatient! I promise Edward will enter the story soon, and Bella and Edward's meeting will be well worth the wait.**

**Let me know what you think of the story idea/writing so far. Should I continue? Are there any specific scenes or characters you'd like to be included?**

**Leave me a review! Thanks!**

**-xxtwilight**


	2. Vibrant Green Eyes

Note: I am not Stephenie Meyer nor do I own the Twilight series.

**Hi guys! Thanks for all the reviews. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't continue writing!**

**Let me know what you think of this chapter!**

_Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful,_ I scolded myself, wincing at the memory of the morning's unfortunate events.

After a rather boring conversation with my obvious admirer, a somewhat staggered _Daniel_ was escorted out by Marie, a small smile playing on the edges of her lips. _She_ knew exactly how I discouraged _them_—the naïve, incorrigible suitors looking for a proper wife, that is—and, unlike my mother, she _loved_ my antics. After watching countless young men from the area enter the parlor, looking and feeling confident, and exiting a few hours later with a dazed, somewhat frenzied expression, she stifled giggles at every Sunday Tea meeting.

"Charming them again, Miss Swan?" She whispered as she returned from escorting out Daniel. Though her tone was hushed and cautious—undoubtedly trying to escape my mother's derogatory glares at the mention of my charming antics on the suitors—Marie's eyes told another story as she cast a naughty glance in my direction.

I smirked, thankful for Marie's support. If it weren't for _her_, I may very well be married to an egotistical, liquor-drinking, _vile_ young man, though likely in possession of a rather large fortune.

I grimaced. _Anything_ would be better than aging, wrinkling, and growing grey hair at the side of a _detestable _man. Marriage was an undoable, lifelong action with permanent effects—I had seen enough marriages _gone bad_ to know the extent of the unhappiness that a woman was willing to endure to please her husband. Although my heart throbbed for the poor, idealistic women that gave their hearts away at young ages to rich fools, I could not help but feel a slight resentment towards them—frustrated by their naivety. _How could you not have known?_ I felt like yelling. _Couldn't you see that their confidence was just an act?_

I blinked back tears. My efforts were to no avail—I would have to marry sooner or later, and with every tick of the clock I was one second closer to marriage. One second closer to a long, _un_happy life, married to a distrustful man who thought of me only as an asset—_of course_ a woman was only an asset, what more to her could there possibly be? Women's only task was, after all, to 'sustain a household and adhere to her husband's every wish,' as quoted from my Knightley's textbook.

At Knightley's Academy for Girls, nearly every aspect of a lady's place in society, motherhood, and household services was covered by _far_ more detail than I cared to hear.

What my textbook _failed_ to explain, however, was the one aspect that truly mystified me—_men_. Were they truly as awful as Marie depicted them to be? Or were all kind, honest, _loving _men only as substantial as the characters in fictional novels?

My mother could tell I was deeply in thought as she approached me, hesitating before sitting next to me on the flowery sofa in the parlor—the very place where Daniel had sat only _minutes_ ago. Though I paid her no attention at first, staring intently at the needlework in my hands, her reproving gaze was tireless, and eventually I could not focus on my stitches.

"Yes, mother?" I asked nervously, unable to meet her gaze.

"Bella…" She began, stroking my hair affectionately. "Bella, darling, you know why I need to talk to you."

And indeed I did. But I was hoping to postpone this unpleasant conversation for the future… preferably in several years. I fidgeted in my seat, braiding and unbraiding a strand of my hair, as I silently seethed. _She was going to try to guilt me, was she? Two could play this game._

"Yes, mother, I do. Do you really think it necessary to discuss this with me?" I asked curtly, growing more and more irritated by the moment.

"Bella, you cannot dismiss _every_ suitor we bring about you. You're a perfectly charming girl! Now, pray tell, _why on Earth_ should you grow old and unmarried?"

_Because I want to!_ I felt like hissing. _Anything would be better than marrying some wealthy idiot who thought of me as nothing more than a possession._

I pursed my lips, pretending to consider my mother's perspective. "You know what, mother? I think I see your point."

Her eyes widened hopefully as she clasped her hands together, eagerly awaiting the rest of my 'epiphany.' _She honestly thinks I will give in that easily?_

"But…I'm sorry, mother. I refuse to condone such behavior. None of the suitors I have laid eyes on interest me any more than my sewing. So, unless you can introduce me to a young man with a_ decent_ intelligence, holding _any_ interests other than horse-racing, gambling, and discussing finances, I will happily oblige."

With that, I turned on my heel, exiting the room. I did not allow myself a second glance at my mother, afraid that her expression would haunt me. Much as I hated it, my mother's efforts_ were_ truly for my benefit. My little speech certainly had not discouraged her—she was determined to find me a husband, _that_ was for sure—but I knew she would feel disheartened by my lack of interest.

That piece of knowledge was enough to make me feel guilty and slow my walk, but not enough to turn around and apologize. _Definitely_ not enough.

The large, oak door seemed tall and intimidating as I made my way to the entry hall. I threw on my petticoat, not caring if my quick dressing disturbed the perfect curl of the ringlets framing my face.

I twisted the heavy brass knob of the oaken door and rushed out into the cool, Chicago air.

I inhaled deeply, invigorated by the sensation of the outdoors. My hair was probably disheveled and my cheeks red from the wind whipping around my face, unprotected by my hood. But, at that moment, I could not bring myself to care. I skipped down the stairway leading up to our house, feeling childish and free.

My adrenaline rush was not dampened by the typical Chicago scenery around me—in fact, the sounds and sights only heightened it. I twirled, letting my curls bounce free and unrestricted. Horses' hooves could be heard as they clopped down the street, pulling carriages. Street venders' shouts and advertisements were an abundant presence in the sidewalks.

Chicago was notorious for its gray, cloudy skies. But, for once, I did not resent the climate of my city—I smiled up at the sky, glad for the familiar reminder of home in such hectic times.

The smell of cooking crepes wafted out from the street, making my head spin. "Mmmm," I breathed. I closed my eyes for a moment, smiling at the dizzying, mouth-watering smell. My corset tightened around my waist at the effort, a reminder of the wrath I would feel upon returning home. 'Good heavens, Bella! Young, responsible, well-bred ladies don't go parading down the street in their best dresses!' I could almost _hear_ mother yelling. I _knew_ I would be in trouble when I returned home—as for the meanwhile, I had not yet thought up any suitable excuse for my actions—but I might as well take advantage of the freedom of the outdoors while I had it.

I walked toward the smell of cooking crepes, wafting out from the right side of the street. I turned a corner, narrowly avoiding being trampled by Sunday shoppers dressed in black. I self-consciously glanced down at my ensemble—my navy blue dress looked attractive, of course, but certainly _not _appropriate for walking, unescorted, in Chicago's busy streets.

_I will only walk to the crepe stand, order a crepe, and promptly return home without stopping. _I repeated to myself, hoping to calm myself. I felt extremely uncomfortable by the way some men's hungry eyes lingered at my bosom—couldn't they look _elsewhere_? I knew my pretty, navy dress showed off a _bit_ more cleavage than most of my Sunday Tea dresses, but surely _grown_ men could control their wandering eyes?

I flushed at the looks I was receiving, quickly making my way across the sidewalk. _Finally!_ I thought, relieved. The crepe stand stood prominently at the side of the street, the scent strengthening—a result of its new proximity.

My eyes darted across the line of customers dressed in black business clothes, quickly assessing the amount of time it would take to wait in line.

_Surely it will not take longer than ten minutes, _I thought, trying to comfort myself. If I did not return to the house in half an hour, my mother would certainly send someone out to look for me. The mere _notion_ of one of our plump housemaids scurrying down the sidewalk, shouting my name, was enough to make me cringe with embarrassment.

I nervously glanced over my shoulders as I made my way to the line for crepes. Unfortunately, my unbalanced tendencies decided to resurface as I bumped into the last customer in the line, sending me backwards.

The sidewalk whirled upwards. Two gloved hands caught me around the waist, gingerly pulling me to balance.

Grateful at avoiding an embarrassing fall, I quickly straightened up, smoothing my skirts in the process. His hands lingered at my waist.

"Thank you, sir. Pardon me." I muttered, irked that a gentleman touched my waist—no matter how called for it might have been.

"No problem, Miss." A velvety voice called from above, causing me to look up, curious who it might belong to.

Blood rushed up to color my cheeks as I swayed unsteadily—though, this time, not from a lack of balance. The man standing before me wore a black suit—perfectly normal, it seemed, from a distance, but up close I could see the intricate threading and clearly expensive design. His auburn hair was whipped around by the wind, only drawing more attention to the beauty of his face.

Vibrant green eyes peered down at me beneath thick, black eyelashes—eyelashes, it seemed, that should belong to a _girl_, for they were far too beautiful to be a man's.

His full, pink lips—almost shockingly symmetrical—twisted up into a crooked smile. The man grinned impishly at me—revealing a set of gloriously white teeth—his new, beaming expression radiating brilliance.

I nearly swooned.

"Are you alright, Miss?" He asked, his brown furrowing in concern. My face must have looked scarlet at the embarrassment I had just endured—nearly falling over, _here _in Chicago's streets, in the presence of _this_ man! I realized, with a gasp, that his hand still was in contact with my waist.

But, as new, alien feelings bubbled up inside me with surprising fervor, I realized the_ last_ thing I wanted him to do was remove it.

I looked up into the eyes of this astonishing young man, and, taking a deep breath, I prepared to answer him.

"Yes. I'm terribly sorry—I'm Isabella Swan." The words rushed out of me breathlessly; certainly the fault of my near-falling experience and tight corset. Or perhaps it was his presence, and the odd, strangely pleasurable sensation it triggered in me.

"Edward Masen." Clearly amused by my breathless state, the right side of his mouth tugged up into an uneven, yet irresistible smirk.

**Hey guys! It took me forever to write this chapter, I wanted to get it just right.**

**BTW, when you leave me reviews, **_**please**_** let me know **_**exactly**_** what I can improve on in the story/writing style/character development.**

**Your reviews are**_** really**_** important to me because I am always trying to improve my writing! Big thanks to everyone who reviews.**

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**-xxtwilight**


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